


Forget Your Perfect Offering

by WitchStuff



Category: Firefly
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Leonard Cohen - Freeform, Love, Pain, Poetry, Recovery, Self-Reflection, Serenity - Freeform, counsel, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:39:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2263119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchStuff/pseuds/WitchStuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post episode 10, "War Stories".</p><p><i>“Out of every man in the 'verse, why was he so lucky? How could she choose him when he was so… so…”</i><br/>Being tortured to within an inch of your life by a maniac, really makes a man think. Wash can’t sleep and all kinds of self reflection follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget Your Perfect Offering

It was ten thirty in the morning on his home planet.

It'd been years since Wash had given the slightest thought to the sleep patterns dictated to him by ships' computers. Outside it was always black, if he was lucky, and inside it was day or night, depending on whichever cycle program was running on the ship he happened to be on. It was Night time on Serenity now. The lights were low in the corridors, and off everywhere else. Bunks were silent, crew was half way through their auto-scheduled eight hour sleep. Wash was so used to life being just like this, that the stray thought about home, when it came to him, took him by surprise.

Maybe it was because he couldn't sleep, and was looking for a reasonable excuse for it. Something along the lines of– well, really, how could a man be expected to sleep as though it were two AM when most of his life had been spent on a planet that was half-way through morning activities right now?

Or maybe it was the fact that every bone, every muscle, every hair follicle in his body ached and burned that turned his thoughts towards his distant, long abandoned home.

A pang of guilt came on the heels of those thoughts. Wash turned his gaze to his wife, sleeping magnificently beside him. Her long, smooth back in lovely contrast with the white sheets, her hair curling on the pillow and around her perfectly round shoulder. Wasn't his home supposed to be wherever she was?

He sighed. Carefully. The slightest movement could cause sudden pain. And if his whimpering woke Zoe up, well that would be a shame. Niska really knew his stuff, that was for gorram sure. Days after being rescued from the clenches of that egomaniacal loon, and the real torture, it seemed, was only just beginning. Apparently, electricity shooting through your body for hours and hours wasn't all that good for you. Wash spared a thought for the captain, wondered if he was in his own bunk, taking the same inventory of aches and pains that Wash was. 

Thoughts of Mal made Wash even more uneasy. He looked at his wife again. Ha. At least we know who's the one allowed to take her to his bed. And yet. He couldn't stop worrying about things he'd never admitted to worrying about before the Niska affair. Questions he hated wanting to know the answers to. Questions like – why him? Why would she choose him? 

And not just in the moment, that moment where she had a choice and didn't even hesitate. She should have chosen Mal, they all knew it. It was a tactical mistake to choose him – the weaker one, the one who couldn't help her, who would slow her escape down, the one who wasn't the Captain of her ship. Instead she chose the husband, and Wash couldn't help wondering whether she had only done it to prove a point to him, or worse – because he was the weaker one, the one who wouldn't make it if he was left under the full attention of the man holding the elaborate torturing devise.

But it was the even bigger 'why' that kept him awake now. Why Wash? Out of every man in the 'verse, why was he so lucky? How could she choose him when he was so… so… 

Wash groaned, a flood of words rushing forward much too easily to complete the thought: so regular, so ordinary, so flawed, imperfect, human. He was all those things, while Zoe and Mal were huge, larger than life, larger than the black. Hell, they'd survived a war so incredibly horrid, while he'd been using every trick he could come up with, pulled every damn string, trying to stay a civilian. Zoe and Mal knew each other so well, they were so much alike, they could really – they really… belonged together. 

"Aiya." If he could have physically managed it, he'd have jumped out of bed. As it was, all he could do was attempt to gingerly sit up. Once he accomplished that, he took a deep breath and twisted slowly, moving his legs out of bed. When that was done, he threw a glance at Zoe, checking that she was still sleeping.

She wasn't. Her body has turned to him, her eyes wide and clear, no sign of the fact that only a second ago she'd been in deep sleep. "I woke you up?" he asked apologetically. Well, what with the cursing and panting and groaning and shifting, that was a typically stupid question. 

"Where're you going?" she asked. Her voice, at least, sounded appropriately groggy. His eyes fixed on her parted lips, soft from sleep. 

"Just… you know." He turned away, suddenly unable to take in the lovely perfection of her. 

A sudden warmth on his back; Zoe's hand touching him lightly. He moved his fingers through his hair.

"I just need to, you know, move around a little. Can't sleep." He stood up and carefully reached for his pants.

"You're in pain?"

"It's okay."

She was a smart woman. She didn't attempt to help him put his pants on, though it was a small hell doing it. She waited until he was by the ladder before she spoke, as though she couldn't help herself, "Come with you?"

"No need, been climbing ladders for years." He was going for flip and casual. But it came out cold. As a last attempt he gave her half a smile. "I'm just going to the bridge for a bit. See if the stars are all still there." 

***

"You're a stupid, stupid man," he told himself, walking into the mass. Everything hurt and walking around made it worse. And leaving a lovely woman in a warm bed to go have lukewarm coffee in an empty kitchen was an act of stupidity even Jayne Cobb couldn't top. 

But it wasn't empty. Turns out there was more than one person on Serenity that night who couldn't make himself sleep simply because of technology.

"Good evening," Book said, surprised, looking up from his book.

"Or whatever," added Wash and made for the coffee. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?"

"Actually, I'm trying my best to stay awake. This date… has significance. I stay awake in honor of – " He stopped, apparently coming to the correct conclusion that this was not a night for deep ideas for Wash. "Well, there's fresh coffee."

"Hallelujah."

Wash poured the dark liquid, sat down slowly, and continued to scowl at his mug, feeling Book's silent gaze on him the entire time.

"I must say, I don't think I've ever seen you like this in all the time I've been on this ship."

"Yeah, well, torture will do that to a man."

The Shepherd's eyebrows rose slightly, "And would that be the physical torture or the other kind?" 

Wash looked up, surprised. "You, my friend, are way too observant for my own good." He sagged a little in his seat. "And usually I like that a lot. But tonight… I'm not really in a share-y mood, Shepherd. Sorry." 

Book waved the apology away, and they slipped back into silence. For a few long minutes, there was nothing but the constant clicking of Serenity, going about her business of keeping her crew alive and moving.

But Wash really wasn't a silence kind of guy, not even when he was on his best brood.

"Let me just say –" he started. Book's head rose, no surprise at the sudden outburst registering on his face. Wash's fingers went through his hair again. "Let me just say that tonight I feel like the weakest, most broken, most unworthy husband in the 'verse."

The Shepherd closed his book. 

"Oh, and not in the mood for any sermon, either," warned Wash.

Book paused for a moment, but then he suddenly said, in a very normal, none-sermon voice, "Are you familiar with the works of Cohen?" 

Wash leaned back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head, feeling a little more relaxed. "Boy, do I. I never visit New Cna'an without stoking up on some of Cohen's very fine ale. It's been a while, though." He smiled sheepishly. "I owe him money." 

Book frowned, "Ah… I was referring to Cohen, the Earth-That-Was poet." 

"Oh," said Wash, unfolding his arms, "that guy I definitely don't owe any money. That I know of." 

"Cohen said, _'There is a crack in everything; that's how the light gets in'_." The Shepherd's fingers tapped lightly on his closed book. "Do you understand?"

"Ahhh... were you just referring to my Wife's crack?"

"Oh, I wouldn't dare," Book answered dryly. Sheppard Book was not an easy man to ruffle, Wash knew, but he liked trying. Seems that the more serious a person was, the more Wash’s mouth will push with the jabs and the jokes, with not much help from his brains. This got him in no end of trouble, pretty much from early childhood. But it’d also brought some things into his life, rewards beyond anything he could have imagined. 

Wash scratched at his stubbled chin, and said, in the lightest tone he could manage, “Thing is, I don't have that much darkness in me. I'm sorry, but I don't.”

“Not much need to be sorry for a blessing like that.”

“Yeah... a blessing.” Wasn’t he just thinking on how it’s a blessing? But tonight all he could see was the gaping chasm stretching between himself and the one he loves. Can you be so different and still make it? “Now, Zoe, she got places in her that're dark, I mean, scary places. And she won't ever let me get in there.” He sighed and his voice was low, because to say these things about his wife felt like betraying her. “…And maybe I don't even want to get in there, but I don't like that she tries to shield me from parts of her. Like I can't handle it. You know? And maybe I can't, gorramit. ‘Cause I'm not a broody kinda guy. I don't have the brood down, I'm not a brooder.” His hands were playing with the coffee mug, turning it around and around. “I tried to do that whole strong-silent-type thing one time. Had a wee problem with the silent part of it. 

“Seems to me you're doing a good job with the brooding tonight.” The preacher raised a sardonic eyebrow, making Wash smile. 

“Na, see, you're confusing the brooding thing with the whining, complaining, childish thing. You need to have that darkness in you to come up with a decent brood, and I don't.”

“Have you considered that maybe that's what she likes about you?”

“Yeah, I’ve considered, I’ve considered all over the place. Nights like this, all the considering in the verse don't help. There’s something… a, a rift, in the heart of us, me and her. I can’t see it going anywhere, only getting wider.” He was embarrassed to hear his voice breaking on these horrible words. He could never admit this fear to himself, let alone say it out loud. He eyed the coffee. “What’s in this thing?”

“I refer you again to the classics. If there is no flaw, no rift, then there’s only the black. You know how endless and deep it is. The rift is the place where the light of the stars can flow in, warming us poor souls drifting out there.”

Wash moved in his chair, trying to relieve the pain in his back, or maybe the seriousness of the moment. He wanted to remind the preacher in a friendly way that they had agreed to no sermons, but what came out was, "I get it, everyone's imperfect, everyone is naturally flawed."

"Yes.” The Sheppard was, of course, not ruffled by his rudeness. “And also - there will always be darkness. The 'verse is a dark place. But the imperfections, the failures of humanity, it allows great, wonderful things to happen. Every horrible experience that you survive can make you stronger. Better." 

Wash raised an amused eyebrow, smiling lightly. "That apply to Shepherds, too?" 

Book smiled, an enigmatic smile if ever Wash saw one. "…And husbands." 

Another moment of silence came, but for once, Wash let it pass. He used it to take stock of his feelings to find he felt… a little better. A little lighter at heart, maybe.

"Thank you, Shepherd," he said finally, looking up from the depths of his coffee cup to catch the man's eyes. He smiled, "for the poetry lesson." 

"My pleasure." The Shepherd cleared his throat, picked up his abandoned book. "And I believe this is the moment for me to return to my bunk." 

Following the older man's gaze, Wash realized his lovely wife was standing at the entrance. She seemed hesitant, and it was a strange look on Zoe. "I don't mean to intrude," she said quietly.

Book was already on his feet, assuring her her timing could not have been more perfect. He quickly departed, leaving man and wife and gaping silence to deal with one another.

Zoe broke the silence when, unceremoniously and in a very none-hesitant manner, she pulled a chair from the table, and dragged it noisily towards Wash, sitting very close. "Preacher giving you poetry lessons?" 

"Ah ha." Wash breathed deep, taking her in, the way she smelt of fabric softener and gun oil, the warmth drifting from her skin. The question still came, unbidden. Why was he so lucky? 

"Planning on impressing all the girls?"

"Only one girl I aim to impress," he told her, not quite managing the humor he meant to put into that.

Zoe's head came to rest on his shoulder and Wash's heart ached with the simplicity of it. Her curls, caressing his neck, the most natural thing in the world. "Might work on some girls but it ain't my style." Her voice drifted to him, low and full of meaning. "Know what I find romantic?" Her hand found his under the table. "My husband, in bed with me at nighttime." In one fluid motion, she got him on his feet and walking towards the bunk, and he noticed that he wasn't in much pain at all.

"You know, it's eleven AM right now in some places." 

"I imagine it is."

He let her walk behind him and push him down the corridor, her strong arms around his waist, her chin resting lightly on his shoulder. They stumbled along, smiling, and still – not much pain at all. "I might warn you, I'm not in any shape for any monkey business."

"No?"

"No, so you just get all that out of your head right now." 

"Gorramit," he could feel her laughter all the way down his spine, "shoulda left you sittin' with the preacher."

They snickered together all the way to their bunk, and all the way down the ladder. There was no monkey business that night, but they curled around each other as best they could and sleep came easy. His wife, in bed with him at nighttime - that was pretty damn great, Wash thought. He was the luckiest man in the 'verse, after all. And maybe such things were not to be overly questioned.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this way back in 2007 under the nick Which Witch for a challenge on LJ.  
> However, never finished it, and it was never posted, because there was a pesky paragraph in the middle I couldn't work out.  
> Seven years later (today), I just sat down and wrote it. Deadlines are a flexible thing in my world.
> 
> Lyrics and story title by Leonard Cohen.


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